


The Sheltering Tree

by LydianNode



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Brian's in a sulk, Gen, Mild Language, Roger to the rescue, it's Hot Space Tour Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-26 07:15:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20738330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydianNode/pseuds/LydianNode
Summary: The Hot Space tour has begun and Brian doesn't know what's happening around him until a stranger's rudeness provokes an unexpected response."It's time for them to keep going forward. They found a keyboard player—maybe it's time for them to find a new guitarist."Brian froze, his heart stuttering as a vicsous dark-purple fog obscured his vision. The hitching breath he managed to take felt as if it would tear out the lining of his lungs. It's called the visceral pleura, his brain supplied unhelpfully as he leaned against the wall and tried not to scream.





	The Sheltering Tree

**Author's Note:**

  * For [onegoldenglance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onegoldenglance/gifts).

> From this prompt by Onegoldenglance: "We all know how fiercely loyal and protective Roger is regarding his friends (and family). So how about he hears someone talking shit about Brian at a party and very eloquently shuts them up."
> 
> Who could resist THAT plot bunny?
> 
> "Friendship is a sheltering tree." - Samuel Taylor Coleridge, "Youth and Age"

16 April, 1982  
Zürich, Switzerland 

Another concert, another party, another night Brian wanted to be almost anywhere else. 

If someone had asked him to describe the state of the band or his own state of mind, his answer would have been the same: flux. The set list was anything but set and having an extra person onstage, even one they knew as well as Morgan, threw off Brian's equilibrium and the band's synchronisation. The songs felt alien to him, the shapes of his fingers as foreign as a different alphabet. 

"It'll get better, darling," Freddie had assured him. Roger had kept him supplied with beer and shoulder massages. John, this new version of John with the sneer and the sniping, had simply stayed out of his way. 

It wasn't just John. The others in the band were all new versions, Brian thought as he accepted a glass of red wine from a passing waiter. Freddie had the moustache and the leather-clad swagger; Roger had adopted current styles and kept his eyes hidden behind shades. John was altered beyond recognition. Sly now, rather than shy, a simple exchange of a single letter that could make or break a Scrabble hand if correctly applied. 

Only Brian had remained constant, as predictable as the heavens he'd abandoned in order to follow a different kind of star. The reviewers were calling him names: throwback, leftover, old-school, stagnant. His father called him worse things. He didn't know what to call himself. 

Brian sidestepped the voluptuous brunette who looked up at him through her eyelashes. All during the recording of "Hot Space" he had been calling himself a cheater, a terrible husband, a dreadful father. He was determined to do better, if not for his band than at least for his family. But he wasn't ready to call himself successful at those things, either. 

He drained his glass and took another one. 

There were simply too many people in the room. Few of the faces were familiar, and even fewer were friendly. Of course Freddie was surrounded by men as Roger was by women. John had made friends with the bartender. Only Brian was left by himself as if he played a leper's bell. 

Fragments of conversation assaulted him.

"...review of the Gothenburg show was rubbish..."  
"...made some good points..."  
"...have all advanced except..." 

He didn't want to hear the last, couldn't bear to have his name fill in the blank. He hadn't advanced, not the way everyone else had. He was the same as he'd ever been. Same hair, same stance, same love of rock, same instrument—his beloved Lady, always true to him—and the same tendencies to go overboard with solos. 

He wasn't playing solos for the reasons the others in the band thought he did. The solos weren't there to show off, to add time for the rest to go backstage and take a deep breath, or to stand in the spotlight and hear his name called by thousands upon thousands of strangers' voices. Brian played guitar solos on this tour because his own voice was going unheard. 

_"No guitars on this one."—John_  
_ "This song doesn't need vocal overdubs, either."—Freddie_  
_ "I'm down to just drum loops myself, so don't pout."—Roger_

Couldn't they hear him through the silence? Couldn't they hear him calling out to them? He didn't write letters in the sand but he did spell out "fuck this" in the dust on his guitar case and that had made him feel just a bit less grim. 

Hours spent in the studio, watching mournfully as the rest of the band was Ever So Busy, had worn him down, and now this tour was taking its toll as well. Brian felt his throat tense up. No, he wasn't going to have one of his moments in the midst of a party. He turned to the heavy velvet curtains and slipped behind them, opening the window just enough to let in some crisp spring air. 

He gazed up at the stars, the few that still winked at him through the light pollution, and at the third quarter moon. It was in the last of its phases, as was Brian himself, and the thought simultaneously amused him and made him want to weep. He leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the window and tried to block out the rest of the world. 

Blocking out the rest of the world was difficult, especially when Roger's distinctive voice could be heard a few feet away greeting someone whose name meant nothing to Brian. 

There were other voices too, with varying accents and volumes. One in particular stood out because its words pierced Brian's heart with a thousand arrows. 

"It's time for them to keep going forward. They found a keyboard player—maybe it's time for them to find a new guitarist." 

Brian froze, his heart stuttering as a vicsous dark-purple fog obscured his vision. The hitching breath he managed to take felt as if it would tear out the lining of his lungs. It's called the visceral pleura, his brain supplied unhelpfully as he leaned against the wall and tried not to scream. 

Worse still, there were some murmurs of assent to what the speaker had just mentioned. "He's past his prime," one person put in, and another said, "not a bad player, just not up to what the rest of the band's doing nowadays." 

"Bollocks." It was the first man again, sounding very sure of himself in exactly the way Brian didn't. "He's a has-been. No, not even that, 'cause he was never—" 

"I wouldn't finish that sentence if I were you, mate." 

Roger. 

Brian fought back the impulse to peer out into the room. He wanted to see what would happen next, but the fear that Roger would end up agreeing left him feeling too cold and empty to move. 

"You could not possibly be speaking about Brian May." Something in the tone of Roger's voice suggested that he'd have his hands on his hips, head thrown back, lips curled upward in a disdainful grin. "Unless you meant to talk about brilliant guitarists and used a couple of very incorrect words." 

"I just meant—" 

"Enlighten me. Name some brilliant guitarists." 

"Hendrix..."  
  
"Living ones. Ones we could call in to fill in a spot in the band. Go."

"Page. Van Halen. Uh...Clapton"

"Oh, you think Clapton's a good guitarist? That's handy, you know why? Because he called Brian 'first-rate.' Think you know better than Slowhand, do you?" 

"I..." 

"You think you know better than GOD?" There was an awful beat of silence, then a familiar _thwang _that could only be from an acoustic guitar being thrust into someone's hand. "Do show us your prowess, since you think we should be holding auditions." 

Brian heard the nervous titter of several onlookers. One of the chuckles, louder and more melodic than the others, made Brian feel sick. Freddie was now witnessing this. 

"I, uh, I don't play guitar." 

"Do you sing? How about keyboards? Bass? Drums? Trumpet? No? Basset horn? Theorbo?" 

Roger was on a tear. Brian allowed himself the tiniest spark of hope. 

"I AM an avid listener," the man countered weakly, and Roger immediately leapt on him. 

"Ah. You play the radio. Well, of course that makes you a fucking expert." 

_Ooh._

Picking up steam, Roger continued, his voice rising in pitch as well as volume. "I'll have you know that Brian built his own fucking guitar and it's so amazing that entire teams of guitar companies can't duplicate it. He can make it sound like a crying woman or a symphony orchestra. Sometimes all at once. His lyrics are fucking poetry. Except 'Tie Your Mother Down.' I still don't know what's up with that. So that's poetry about fucking." 

_Oh, God._

"He plays two different guitars every night when we play 'Crazy Little Thing.' TWO guitars in just under three minutes. Perfect each and every time. Giant chunky chords on 'Bites the Dust,' no problem. Then a twelve-string for Freddie's 'Love of My Life' that could make an angel weep. He's a fucking goddamn genius, too. Has degrees in stuff I can barely spell. Could've been a PhD but he ditched it to play in OUR band, and if you think for one INSTANT that I'm going to stand here and let you abuse him, you're a bigger idiot than I thought." 

Even behind the curtain Brian could see the flickers of flashbulbs. The tabloids back home would have a field day with this. Even so, Roger wasn't quite finished. 

"Brian May has forgotten more than you'll ever know, you pillock. He's a brilliant musician and one of my best friends, and he's worth a hundred thousand plonkers like you."

"And he has a HUGE cock!" Freddie called from nearby. 

Brian didn't know whether to laugh or leap out of the window. 

Above the laughter, Roger's voice rang clear. "So if you believe that Brian May needs replacing, you should feel free to leave this party that he's co-hosting. Sooner rather than later, I think." 

Brian wasn't sure if the room suddenly got quiet or if the buzzing in his ears was blocking everything out. He shut his eyes, sliding down the wall until he hit the floor, legs stretched out in front of him. What had just happened?

The curtain rustled as it parted. Brian looked up and saw Roger looking down. Fondly. There was affection in the blue eyes that had seemed so terribly cold these last few months. 

"Hey," Roger whispered. 

"How did you know I was here?" Brian asked. His voice sounded foreign to his own ears. 

"Red curtain, white clogs. Not hard to see past your clever disguise." 

Before Brian had a chance to digest these words, Freddie appeared. "Oh, do get up, dear. Those velvet trousers will be covered in dust if you lounge there much longer." Freddie offered his hand and helped Brian get to his feet. "Sorry about the cock thing," he murmured, not looking at all remorseful. 

"It's a compliment. I'll take it gratefully." Brian sighed. "Has the crowd dissipated?" 

"God, yes, they all followed that ridiculous man to the exit." Freddie slung an arm around Brian's waist and hugged him. "Let's get you another drink." 

"I've already done it." John poked his head around the curtain. "Thought you could use something a bit stronger. Vodka tonic?" 

Brian was tempted to sniff the glass in case there was fast-acting, guitarist-murdering poison in the ice. But there was something in the set of John's mouth, something soft that reminded him of the early years instead of the last agonising months. "Ta, Deacy," he said as he lifted the glass in a silent toast. "And you, Rog. I don't know how to thank you." 

"Don't. Please." Roger's left hand came to rest on his right collarbone, rubbing lightly. There was a little hint of pink on his cheeks. "I just...I dunno..." 

"'Friendship is a sheltering tree.' Coleridge. And this tree has strong roots." Freddie glanced around at the other three. "And really long branches." He looked up at Brian, lashes fluttering, and nudged his shoulder. "BRIAN. Long branches." 

Of course Brian opened his arms wide enough to hold on to his brothers. And if Roger nestled especially close to hide his blush against Brian's chest, no one would say a word against him.

**Author's Note:**

> Queen played in Zürich on 16 and 17 April, 1982.  
The moon really was in the third quarter on 16 April, 1982. I checked.  
Eric Clapton really did refer to Brian as a "first-rate guitarist."
> 
> Many thanks to @royaltyisshe64 for Freddie's outburst.
> 
> I have a Tumblr - come and say hi! https://www.tumblr.com/blog/lydiascribbling


End file.
